Line of Fire
by ChibiRyne1013
Summary: Sara, Greg and Grissom come across a chase for a prime suspect in a murder. Suddenly, the killer unexpectedly returns to the scene; chaos and terror arises and one CSI is balancing on the bridge between life and death. CHAPTER 7 FINALLY UP!
1. Prolouge

**LINE OF FIRE**

**::Prolouge::**

_(This is a prolouge, so it's a little short. Sorry! Much, much more to come!)_

Sara sat impatiently; toying with her fingers as their massive, black SUV rolled up the rocky road. She glanced around at her partner Greg, whom was new in the field, then at the other cars ahead. Her straight, brown hair sat at her shoulders as her dark brown eyes gazed out the window. Brass was in the passenger's seat, on the phone with someone and Greg simply stared at the car floor. Sara cocked an eyebrow.

"What's up?" she asked.

"I... I guess I just can't stop thinking." He replied, then shook his head. "Do you... Do you remember that day when the lab exploded?" he combed through his spiked hair with his fingers.

"Of course." She answered softly, reliving her past. An image of a younger Sara walking down the hall played through her mind. She wanted to ask Grissom something. Her supervisor moved through the hall, occasionally stopping to check in on evidence being processed, or to talk with some other co-workers about a pending case. Sara patiently traveled in his wake, waiting until he was free to talk. She followed him to his office, where a fellow CSI walked in to ask Grissom a question. The woman then smiled and shook her head hopelessly and gave up. She then continued to walk down the hall, grinning to herself. That's when it happened. A monstrous explosion erupted from the DNA lab, throwing the young woman to the wall.

"How could anyone forget..." she said softly.

"I just keep having nightmares from it. I guess, well... It was scary."

"It was scary for all of us, Greg." Grissom said from the driver's seat. "We're fortunate everyone got out alive."

Sara nodded. The car stopped at an old, seemingly vacant house.

"Okay, here's what's goin' on." Brass uttered as he opened the car door. "Charles Holmes; prime suspect, fled from his apartment home to this...um..." Brass glanced at the decomposing structure. "Anyway, we're to clear the scene, then you guys can take over."

Brass and his team of heavily guarded police officers entered the house. Three officers took the 1st floor, two took the 2nd, and one took the small basement. The house was on slanted land, which means there was an entrance from the back to the basement. The officer slowly descended the stairs, his gun held out in front. Within a second, a black figure crept up behind him and slit his throat with one swift slice. The officer fell to the cement silently, and lay motionless. Upstairs, the officers yelled "Clear!" as there was no one on that floor but themselves. Brass took a count. He approached the basement door and called out, "Johnson!". The killer cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted in a pitch almost identical to his victim.

"Clear!"


	2. An Unexpected Visitor

**::An Unexpected Visitor::**

The officers stayed in the house, looking around for suspicious weapons of any kind. Brass motioned the three CSI's the "okay" and they began their work.

"We missed him again. He must've known we were coming. Bastard." Brass mumbled to Grissom. They stood in the living room, which was a dust landfill. The chairs and tables were all covered with white sheets, haunted-house style.

"I've got the upstairs. Greg, you'll take the 1st floor. And Sara..." Grissom started.

"I have the basement." She finished for him, winking. The crime scene investigators advanced to their given positions. The floor boards creaked when Grissom walked up. His vast, gray eyes scanned the stairs with each cautious step he took. He then stopped, and spotted a thin blonde hair, barely noticeable. But it was evidence.

Grissom reached into one of his vest pockets and pulled out a pair of tweezers. He carefully picked up the hair and took a closer look. He made a satisfied hum, then obtained a small envelope; dropping the hair into it.

The basement was as damp as a sewer.

Sara turned on her large flashlight and scoured the basement. She could hear the distant dropping of water on the cold cement floor, most likely from a leaky pipe. Cobwebs coated the walls and corners, and the wind outside howled. Sara reached the bottom of the stairs and nearly tripped over something. She dropped her kit and it slid across the floor.

Disgusted, she straightened up, and pointed her flashlight to what she stepped on. A body lay right next to her, his face to the floor. He was nearly decapitated. Sara jumped. It was one of Brass' officers. Shaking a bit, Sara located her walkie-talkie and held it up to her mouth.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." A deep voice whispered from the darkness. Alarmed, Sara reached for her gun. It was gone! Only the holster on her belt remained. Sara's eyes widened in fear.

"No... How..?!" she stammered, but wasn't able to finish the sentence. The man fired the gun, and silenced blast lightly echoing on the basement walls. Sara let out a deathly gasp and collapsed to the hard floor.

Greg clicked on his flashlight and glanced around the filthy living room. There were large pillows scattered on all the couches, some large, some small. They had no particular color scheme; it seemed as though someone simply was fond of pillows and liked to collect different shades of cerulean, lime and red regardless if they went with the room of not. Greg lifted one of the eccentric pillows, and a huge cloud of dust filled the room. He backed away and fanned the dust away from his face, coughing. The opening revealed one small, black gun.

"Hey Sara!" Greg called from the basement. There was no response. "Hey, come here when you get the chance, I've recovered a gun." Since Greg was new in the field, he was not permitted to handle gun evidence of any kind. But, he could examine it.

The newbie opened a container of white fingerprint dust and a duster. He lightly rubbed the duster in the powder, then brushed the gun. He twisted the brush in an interesting pattern as it flicked dust on any possible prints. Greg smiled with his finished work. One full fingerprint sat on the weapon, perfect for AFIS.

A searing, unbelievable pain shot up from Sara's shoulder. She winced and grasped her arm. The young woman's eyes were closed and her mouth opened. Her heart pumped in her chest, everything was a blur. The screaming pain grew worse and worse; she wanted it all to end, everything to stop. Crimson blood poured out onto the floor. _What's going on?! Grissom! Where are you? _She cried in her mind. Her eyes shot open. Breathing was getting harder now. She didn't know how long she would hold on.


	3. A Polaroid Picture

**::A Polaroid Picture::**

_(sorry, this chapter is a bit short.  Hope you like it!)_

"Don't speak." The killer warned in a low, threatening tone, keeping the gun on the fallen criminalist. Sara sat upright with great difficulty, keeping a timid eye on the man cloaked by pitch darkness. Two small tears fell from her hard brown eyes. _No... No!_ she screamed inside her mind. She glanced around the room. Her gun had fallen near her kit. If she could only...

Thinking quickly, Sara lunged for the kit, and reached for her gun. She cried and her opposite hand shot up and grasped the wound. The killer appeared behind her, a cloth was pressed to her face. The basement then spun, the sounds of the dripping pipes and the footsteps of the killer all blended together and dimmed. Sara's eyelids fluttered, and she fell to the floor. There was a flash of light, then nothing. A black silence filled her ears.

"Sara!" Greg called for a third time, cupping his hands over his mouth.

"What _is_ it Greg?!" Grissom asked, annoyed, as he walked down the wooden stairs, his shoes making heavy noises that bounced off the walls.

"Oh, hi Grissom." Greg motioned his supervisor over. "I found a gun hidden behind one of these pillows."

Grissom sighed.

"Why didn't you get Sara? I was in the middle of a theory up there."

"I called like, five times! She's not answering me." Greg held up his arms in defense. Grissom moaned, and approached the basement stairs. Greg tagged along behind him. The middle-aged man clicked on his long, black flashlight and started down the stairs. His mouth dropped. Greg then looked out and gasped.

"I think...that's...one of Brass's!" Greg managed to get out.

"Sara!" Grissom shouted into the soggy basement. He only heard the echo of his own voice. He grasped the railing until his knuckles turned white. "SARA!" No response. Grissom bolted down the stairs, then stopped. Sara's kit lay opened on the floor, all of her equipment scattered on the cement. The two men searched the dark basement floor with their flashlights.

"Oh god..." Greg whispered. The beam of his flashlight lay on a particular spot on the floor.

"What is it?!" Grissom demanded, looking at the spot. A large, fresh blood pool sat on the cement, along with a trail leading to her kit. Next to the pool was a Polaroid picture of Sara. Grissom grabbed the picture and his eyes widened. She rested in an unpleasant position, like she simply collapsed to the floor, her eyes were closed and her white sweater was heavily dyed red near her shoulder. Grissom breathed heavily, his teeth gritted.

"No..." he whispered. Adrenalyne rushed through his veins. His hands shook as he held the picture. "No." he stammered over and over. Greg grabbed his walkie-talkie.

"Brass we got a dead officer and Sara is missing. I repeat, one down and one missing!" Greg stuttered the message.

"SARA!" Grissom wailed now, searching through the huge, black basement. Hundreds of boxes littered the floor, towers and towers of junk from old lounge chairs to ancient magazines. Brass then rushed down the stairs followed by others and ran to the fallen officer. He turned him over, and the man's head was attached to his body by a mere skin tag. "Dammit!" he shouted, and turned to Greg and Grissom.

"Where's Sara?" he demanded. Grissom held the picture in his trembling hands, still gazing at it in disbelief. A small tear rolled down his cheek.


	4. Where Is The Justice?

**::Where Is The Justice?::**

_(R&R please!  Tell me what you think!)_

Catherine Willows glanced at the stained cement sternly, her mind vacant and expressionless. She opened her kit blankly, and pulled out a fresh swab. Kneeling on the cold floor, she rubbed the cotton swab on the red stain. Suddenly, it hit her, as though she has not yet realized it. _Sara is missing. She is injured. She could be dead._ The older woman sank onto the floor, a look of despair written across her face.

She gloomily reached for a certain bottle of fluid and dropped a bit on the swab. The entire tip glowed a fluorescent pink. Blood. Catherine's bright blue eyes glanced at Nick, who examined the Polaroid picture. He simply stared at it, shaking his head, then looking away. A tall, buff man with light auburn skin walked down the creaky steps to the basement. Catherine ran up to him, weeping, and he held her in a tight embrace.

"Tell me what happened." Warrick said softly, but with a firm anger burning in his voice.

"Gris, Greg and Sara were scanning the house, and Sara took the basement." Nick replied. "After awhile, Greg and Grissom came down here and they found a dead police officer and this." Nick handed Warrick the picture. The man's mysterious hazel eyes glanced at the picture. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"The two and Brass are trying to find the killer." Catherine wiped the tears from her eyes, maintaining her composure. "They...they think he entered through that window." She pointed at a small window well hidden by boxes. Warrick nodded, then walked over towards the window.

"Hey guys, isn't that Sara's gun?" Nick pointed to a discarded gun that lay on the floor near Catherine. The woman turned, picked up the gun and noticed blood printed on the handle. She then opened the magazine. All bullets were accounted for.

"She never fired..." Catherine replied.

"What's that blood doing on the handle?" Nick asked.

"I think he shot her first, before she could get to her gun." Warrick announced, squatting on the ground, glancing at Sara's collapsed kit. Catherine stood, pointing to the blood spatter.

"And Sara reached and got her gun, which could explain the blood on the handle." Her eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Wait, but why didn't she shoot him then?" Nick asked.

"He didn't let her." Catherine spoke softly.

---

Grissom, Brass, Greg and several officers stood outside the house examining any evidence of what happened to Sara. Many of the neighbors gathered around, barricaded by the yellow crime scene tape. Several news reporters arrived. The aged supervisor stood, his feet firmly planted on the wet soil.

"The press hears nothing. I don't care about what the Sheriff says. The press hears nothing until I say. Understood?" Grissom whispered hoarsely to his partners. The three started with the perimeter. The wind blew fiercely, carrying a freezing chill in from the north. Grissom tugged his jacket closer to his face.

"I got a cloth." Greg called. He stood behind a bush holding a blue bath towel away from his body. Grissom walked over to him.

"It's pretty strong..." Greg winced and turned away from the cloth. Grissom wafted the scent to his nose.

"Chloroform." He said. "He must have knocked her out with this." Greg nodded and bagged the cloth.

---

"Dammit..." Warrick replied. "We've got nothing! No hair, no prints, no nothing!" Catherine sat against the wall, rubbing her temples.

"This guy's an expert. He knew what he was doing." Nick said.

"We're running out of time!" Catherine shouted in frustration. "There must be something, anything..." She stopped, then stood and continued to examine the basement.

---

Brass and Greg shined their flashlights on a pair of tire treads in the mud. Greg retrieved the casting solution for the treads from his kit. He carefully unscrewed the cap and squeezed the mold onto the treads and motioned Brass to wait. Grissom took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Time _was _running out. All they had was a simple pair of tire treads.

Grissom's cell phone rang. "Grissom." He answered, angered and weighted down with rage. A distorted voice spoke, deep and eerie.

"I have her. I will kill her. Bring five million dollars to the corner of Desert Rd. and Whitney by 1:00 AM. Bring police and I will kill her. Bring a gun and I will kill her."

Grissom continued to hold the phone to his ear, his face deathly pale.


	5. Questions Unanswered

**::Questions Unanswered::**

(sorry guys, this chapter's a little weak, but please keep reading, it gets good!)

"_Would you like to have dinner with me?"_

_Grissom stopped. "No…"_

"_Why not? Let's ... let's have dinner. Let's see what happens."_

"_Sara ..." the man paused and sighed. "I don't know what to do about this."_

"_I do." They gaze at each other. She then looks down, her delicate, brown eyes water._

"_You know, by the time you figure it out, you really could be too late."_

"Grissom!" he was jerked back to reality with a familiar, roaring voice. Brass stood, his hands cupped over his mouth. The supervisor turned, brushed the tears from his eyes, and rushed over to the detective.

"Just got a call back from the lab, Sofia found skin epithelia's on the chloroform towel Greg found. It's Charles Holmes."

"Our murder suspect from the other cases…" Grissom mumbled, pale as a ghost. He took a strenuous breath, and gazed up at the stars, fearful. Oh how they shined that night; the various constellations decorating the jet black sky like an intricate design on a canvas. _Please be alright, Sara. Please…_

"We called in the FBI, they came up with a plan for the situation." Brass continued. Grissom faced the detective, glaring.

"If we bring any police, he'll kill her!" he shouted.

"What other chances do we have Grissom?! Risk your life as well as Sara's with you going alone? For all we know she's already dead!" Brass stopped. The man's eyes grew as wide as a child's. He knew she could be dead, but being told; forcing him to consider that possibility made the supervisor freeze. Grissom looked down, and nodded.

Brass took a breath. "This is Special Agent Molloy, he'll tell you what to do." The detective introduced Grissom to one of the agents in the black coats, and spotted Catherine. The woman motioned Brass over, and he briskly walked towards her. She stood, showing deep concern on her face as she bit her lip. The strong wind whipped her blonde hair askew.

"All right, what do we got?" he leaned up against the house wall next to her.

"House is empty, owners moved out about two weeks ago. The initial victim, Brooke Meyer, was raped and murdered in her home in this neighborhood." Brass nodded. "A neighbor called the police seeing a resemblance of the attacker from a picture included in a news report enter this house lots of times." Catherine continued.

"They call us in, Grissom, Greg, Sara and me go in, Johnson's shot, Sara's kidnapped…" Brass sighed.

"Greg recovered a gun from underneath a pillow, plugged a print through AFIS and came up with not Charles Holmes but Eric Holmes, his brother." Catherine's eyes met Brass'.

"They could be in on it together…"

"Okay Mr. Grissom, the location specified by the kidnapper is just two miles from here. We plan to wait on Dessert Road, in the nearby forest, armed. You are to carry an empty suitcase, then, when the moment is right, we surround the kidnapper and place him under arrest." The agent instructed Grissom, his dark eyes focused on the dismayed CSI.

"How do you know this much information on the location?" Grissom was stern, showing his extreme hate for the 'feds'.

"We sent an undercover agent to drive by, catch a glimpse." The agent straightened his hat, then continued. "Killer was pretty dumb to have called you."

Grissom shook his head. "This guy is too smart for that, this isn't going to work, Molloy." He growled, frustrated. "We're running out of time!"

"Now, now, don't get pessimistic, it'll work just fine. Why, you think you have a better plan?" The FBI agent then signaled to his fellow officers, glancing at his watch.

"It's 12:41. Let's roll. We'll give you further instruction soon." He spoke coolly, and motioned Grissom to follow. The supervisor clenched his fists, and glared at Brass.

"He'll kill her!"

(TBC)


	6. Sweet Sara

**::Sweet Sara::**

_(Just to let you all know, it doesn't end here, so don't kill me!)_

Grissom opened the car door and stepped out. He grabbed the suitcase. Small raindrops fell from the sky, a slight drizzle in the night. Beyond the street corner was an open meadow, with a thick forest of trees to the right, just as Molloy had said. Frozen patches of grass covered the opening, like an arctic tundra, and a small hill protruded outwards not far from the streets. A harsh wind blew furiously, swaying the road signs saying, "Desert Rd" and "Whitney Dr". The CSI walked cautiously, and set the suitcase down on the dirt.

"All right, Mr. Grissom, we've got you covered on all angles. You know what to do." Agent Molloy's voice came through Grissom's earpiece. The older man waited, is mind impatient. He didn't want to stand there and put his life on the line – he had to find Sara, dammit! For all they knew, she could already be dead, as Brass had nailed into Grissom. But he was not the kind of man to give up hope, not now.

Grissom searched the plain and barely spotted a black figure emerging from the hill. The man walked briskly, a small, silver gun in his hands. Grissom stood firmly, his fists trembling with a mixture of anger and fear. Before he got to close, Grissom roared, "Where is she?!" The figure stopped, then continued striding towards him.

"The money." He motioned with a gloved hand. Grissom stepped back.

"Where _is _Sara?!"

"Stop it Grissom. Just give him the suitcase, now." Molloy whispered. Tense, Grissom handed the suitcase over to the shady figure. Suddenly, a pack of agents and LVPD officers rushed towards the two.

"Las Vegas Police, you're under arrest!" Brass called out, holding his gun steady as he ran towards the figure. The dark man held the gun to his head.

"This time, you can't save her! Goodbye, Grissom." Then he pulled the trigger. Grissom shouted and grasped the deceased by his black shirt.

"Tell me where she is _now_!" He shook the dead man, weeping as Brass pulled him away. Grissom stood, outside of the circle of police that surrounded Brass and the man. He was furious, adrenaline still pumping through his veins, filling his mind with unspeakable rage.

Brass kneeled beside the corpse and fumbled through the deceased's pockets. Grissom panted heavily and turned away, facing the old road. The detective retrieved a wallet, and quickly looked through it, his dark eyes scanning an ID card.

"It's not Charles Homes, it's Eric. The brother." Brass sighed, and dropped the wallet on the wet grass. "Now what?" he whispered, rubbing his forehead. _This is all my fault, how could I have let this happen…? We should have cleared the house, and we didn't._ Brass gazed up at the midnight sky.

A short, loud gunshot filled Grissom's ears. He automatically turned in fear in the direction of the noise. A large, vacant warehouse stood in the distance, seemingly ready to be torn down. The clouds above then thundered, and released billions of heavy raindrops which pounded roughly on the ground.

"Shot! In the warehouse!" Grissom's shout was faint over the thunder. Half of the FBI agent and police followed Grissom, in a frantic sprint to the decomposing building, while the others stayed with the dead man, waiting irritably for the ambulance to come.

The dense rain hammered on the dirt, turning it to thick mud. Grissom clenched his teeth and rushed to the warehouse door where several officers held their guard. Brass frenetically radioed for backup, pulling his hood up from the ruthless rain. He barked orders to the team, thunder clashing with his roaring voice. A fire burned in Grissom's eyes, he was oblivious to the world around him. He didn't hear the deafening storm or the shouting officers. He didn't feel his legs beating on the broken pavement, running to the warehouse and stepping in mud. He only saw an image of Sara in his mind and the gun gripped in his hands.

Grissom reached the door, and rushed in. The warehouse was an old textile mill that had been empty for years. The entire structure seemed as though it was standing on a toothpick. The roof was caved in at one section, and every single window was shattered. The paint was even scraped off the exterior. Pitch darkness loomed inside, and the resolute CSI rapidly whipped out his flashlight, which he held in his other hand. Without thinking, he sprinted through the narrow hallways, many raindrops soaking the man from the many holes in the roof.

"Sara!" he called, his mind controlled by his dread. "Sara!" A picture of her formed in his mind, the tall brunette, her hair neatly straightened and sitting at her shoulders. But, no, something was wrong. She was sitting in Grissom's office, her lips quivering as she spoke. Tears stained her gentle face.

"_Sara ... you got to learn to let this go or you're going to spend all your time in hospitals trying to help the people you__couldn'tsave." He had said, taking his glasses off. She stood, her stunning brown eyes cold, and turned._

"_Yeah, I wish I was like you, Grissom. I wish I didn't feel anything."_

"SARA!" he shouted, breathless from running so deep into the mill. Grissom frantically descended a decomposing stairwell. Rushing down another hall, he heard a faint, muted scream. He froze. Chills ran down his spine and he followed the sound, petrified. He opened a rusted door. Nothing. He reached another and violently swung the door open.

A man dressed in black, just like his brother, lay on the ground, a gunshot wound to his head and a beautiful, brown-eyed woman hung from a rope, suddenly still.

"_SARA!_" Grissom lifted his gun and shot the rope that held his beloved. She fell to his arms, her breaths short and strained. Her eyelids fluttered open, then she croaked and dropped back in his arms, her body motionless.

"_You know, by the time you finally figure it out, you could just be too late…"_

(TBC)


	7. Oblivion

**:Oblivion:**

_(First of all, I'd like to apologize to each and every person who read/reviewed my story for the time it took me to post the next chapter. My computer shut down for about two months and would not work, which was immensely frustrating in itself. Thanks to all for having much patience, and I will never leave you guys like that again! Without any further stalling, here's the next (short) chapter to L.O.F.!)_

Darkness.

Immense, complete darkness filled the unknown space around her. She was lost, adrift in a world unrecognized. A spontaneous peace overcame her as she floated off into eternity; a subtle glee from nowhere in particular. It seemed perfect.

A soft, muffled voice sounded from a distance: perhaps miles away…gradually increasing in volume. The voice startled her; it seemed that her senses were slowly re-awakening. No words were comprehendible just yet, but the voice rapidly grew to voices – her sense eventually revealing that they were shouts.

Feeling came next. A slow, labored thrust beat nearby; slowing, slowing down – it's rhythmic, metronomic pumps working harder. Suddenly, a shrill, piercing pain exploded from below. The unbearable pinch shot up through her nerves like newly lit fireworks. With her nervous system's delay, pain seemed twice as bad as before.

Before…

What had happened before? Thought had, for the first time, failed her. Two slight pressures appeared and touched below her. She felt her neck cringe as her body was levitated. More voices. More cries. A fragment of memory broke through her amnesic barriers.

"_I'd…I would like to speak with Grissom."_

"_Grissom is on a case right now, Sara, but if there is issue with him, there is issue with me."_

"_Ecklie…" her voice had an irritated tone._

"_Sara, I want to know what is going on with you lately. You're not concentrating on your job."_

"_Since when was I not concentrated on my job, Ecklie? You want to try pulling over fifty hours a week and double overtime for two nights in a row!"_

"_Sara…"_

"_Just…let me know when Grissom is in."_

…………………………

Choosing speed over caution, Grissom sped down the decomposing corridors, clinging to Sara's body. He grunted with effort, ignoring his pains, ignoring the protruding sharp corners which ripped his jacket. He glanced at her face. She looked so peaceful. A mysterious, beautiful angel with dark hair and eyes draped in his arms. Her broken body twitched as she let out a sudden, muted gasped. It was a last resort for air.

Grissom cried and increased his speed with an extra boost of adrenalin. _Run, damn it, run._ He continued to scour the warehouse, desperately waiting for the exit to come into view. _Hold on Sara… Just hold on._ He was now gasping for oxygen, his legs unable to work any longer. Wailing, the man shoved his feet outward and continued on, despite his protesting body. The warehouse was a hell of a maze. A wall suddenly slid to the left, a portal to the outside storm and a crowd of emergency officers. It was Catherine who opened the door, screaming something to Grissom. Sara was lifted from Grissom; her body carried onto a stretcher with over twenty personnel's scrambling and shouting. Catherine led Grissom out of the warehouse and he went immediately to the stretcher. His voice finally caught up with him.

"SARA!" he shouted to her, his bloodied hands staining the stretcher's handles. He was pushed back by the crowd and led away by his fellow CSI's. He continued to call her name, stricken by a distant wonder if she may respond.


End file.
